Lucky Bug

Black polka dots –
on a vibrant red
wing.

Six silent footsteps –
clutching to the ceiling,
daredevil wearing a smile.

A single false step –
wings spread;
always prepared to skydive.

Tranquil buzz in your ear;
noise translated to ethereal music -
whispers of joy.

Gently landing on your shoulder –
the paratrooper hits its mark
without fail.

Lady Luck presents herself,
calm in nature -
magical when seen.

Uncommon blessings -
found on the edge of a leaf,
the corner of your eye.

Arachne’s Shadow

Silver spindles manifest, each one
unique; artistry
at the tip of eight long
fingers--crafted carefully to
catch curious creatures;
trapped by the allure of Circe’s
web of lies. Glistening
and bright from distances, yet
dead upon impact; sticky, dull.

A corner, so decorated with
cobwebs and dust; Arachne
spins her loom in the dark, a room,
that is used seldom, with the exception
of the dinner show;  always
on time, 8 o’clock sharp. Witness
the cunning I lack, benevolence
she disregards; a fly—simple in intelligence,
but chaotic when trapped
in a small room; nuisances
that need dealing with.

Once caught, the struggling ignorant
victim chokes on
mistakes of days past, cheating on
a test, beating the ******* boy; observed
errors of judgment, punishable by death.
Every victim is different, but each is caught
screaming, praying, gasping
for life, only to be
muffled, hushed, stifled;  No remorse
during mealtime.

Squished Flies

I squished a fly once, with a huge,
what’s that word—
swatter. Its guts got stuck
to the wall, a wing or a limb poking
through the holes of my utensil.
No more buzzing, no more tapping—
soft tapping on my window, and certainly
no more flapping wings; I picked those
off the swatter—flicked them into the air,
nope, they don’t work anymore.

Moment of silence as I scrape the
entrails away (gross), they don’t smell;
but why does puke green ooze from their
wounds – radio-active
waste eating flies, soon to be larger than skyscrapers,
wing-span—covering the skyline. Hovering
in front of the sun; taking subtle revenge
for lost family members, past transgressions
where – the once dominant species – set fire
to each limb and base of the wings; shriveling
appendages and the smell of burnt matches.

I should start building a really
ginormous
fly swatter.

Street Shower

I hope this bus doesn’t crash; rain
greases the tires like WD-40 puddles
on a rusted door hinge, an accident looming
with every late brake. Relaxing in a chair
eyes flicker shut, screeches from tires
echo on crunching metal,
glass collapses on the rough gray asphalt, scatters
amongst every seat; a collage
of red droplets and pink scabs
on my forearm.

As I pick the shards
that nicked my bones
and scooped my marrow, I notice
the empty seats; garnet cushions stained scarlet,
taste of iron on my tongue; petrified looks
on several wan faces, though their eyes look almost lonely,
seeming to yearn, maybe a goodbye, or another breath
to scream for help; lump in the throat
can’t be gulped away, choke
on engine fumes as I stumble
out the front window, staring back at
what is now a Dali painting; melting
frames welded to the ground. I fix my wrinkled
shirt, pull up the shreds of my pant legs, and
I look into the shadow filled sky; rain
washes over me, maroon puddles
at my ankles.

Night Thrill

Opened eyes see unseen things,
different worlds revealed all at once,
can’t you hear them?
Coming to life with ease,
breathing and living just as anything else.

The trees begin their dance,
flailing their arms,
leaves falling to the ground,
patterns making stars, snowflakes, simple beauty.

Walking through the hollowed buildings,
silent and empty in the lull of the night,
only soft cries and yells can be heard
as the beasts run wild.

In an amphitheater, vast and desolate
darkness captures the hardwood floors
and renders all life from the place,
moments from collapsing.

Footsteps across the dusty stage,
squeaks and creaks heard as the curtain rises,
a rusted chair decays on the surface,
the once living prop, struck from its glory.

A strong gust begins swirling,
rushing over the cracked floorboards,
bringing the stage to life
under the feet of a Shakespearian player.

The scene is set and not a moment too late,
a motley audience of demons and ghouls,
witness the defining moment,
a humble servant of the stage
relinquishes mortal form and ascends.

Self-Medication Idea #13

Confidence is writing without purpose,
letting words form
their own sentences – no direction
but down the page.